Muti, in a very interesting interview, explains that, even if he has conducted the Requiem countless times (and very often in locations such as the church of San Marco in Milan, where Verdi himself conducted the premiere of his Requiem, at Notre Dame and at St. Peter & Paul in Philadelphia), the piece keeps revealing new secrets to him. And even Verdi's atheism seems to appear more clearly in the score:

"Every time, studying the Requiem, I see that new details reveal themselves, new angles, in the light of experience. And every time one is awed by that unusual finale: that C major, harmonically unresolved, instead of giving light and hope seems to lead us toward doubt. Whether or not this God is merciful -- that is the doubt we are left with, after that supremely harsh, supremely human prayer. After all, this music is a constant, almost physical struggle between Man and God. Even for the performers, this is a terrifying work, Verdi requires the impossible especially from the singers: (Verdi requires) operatic voices with a religious devotion to diction and meaning".

The performance, as we reported on Sunday, has been gracefully dedicated by the maestro to Laura Dubini, the Corriere della Sera writer who passed away last Saturday in Milan after a long illness and who was supposed to report on last night's London concert.

Muti gave the impression of a man who was master of all he surveyed. His performances of the Requiem have always been conceived in the world of the living – a passionate, red-blooded response to an almost operatic score – but what impressed here was the ebb and flow of emotion that brought spontaneity to even the most formal passages.

“The key to the Requiem comes at the end of the ‘Libera me’,” says Muti, relaxing into a subject dear to his heart. “Written in the score are the words lunga pausa [long silence]. The soprano has been saying ‘Please God, I’m defenceless, help me’. Long silence. What is God’s answer? Bang! – the thumping chords of the ‘Dies irae’. No mercy? Or perhaps Verdi believed there was nothing out there to offer hope. Molto complicato. This is the drama of a modern man. The lunga pausa is part of the music, it’s a vacuum of intensity – but most conductors are impatient, they like to move their arms. They ignore the pause and go on. That’s why I say conducting is an illness . . . ”

Muti, in a very interesting interview, explains that, even if he has conducted the Requiem countless times (and very often in locations such as the church of San Marco in Milan, where Verdi himself conducted the premiere of his Requiem, at Notre Dame and at St. Peter & Paul in Philadelphia), the piece keeps revealing new secrets to him. And even Verdi's atheism seems to appear more clearly in the score:

"Every time, studying the Requiem, I see that new details reveal themselves, new angles, in the light of experience. And every time one is awed by that unusual finale: that C major, harmonically unresolved, instead of giving light and hope seems to lead us toward doubt. Whether or not this God is merciful -- that is the doubt we are left with, after that supremely harsh, supremely human prayer. After all, this music is a constant, almost physical struggle between Man and God. Even for the performers, this is a terrifying work, Verdi requires the impossible especially from the singers: (Verdi requires) operatic voices with a religious devotion to diction and meaning".

The performance, as we reported on Sunday, has been gracefully dedicated by the maestro to Laura Dubini, the Corriere della Sera writer who passed away last Saturday in Milan after a long illness and who was supposed to report on last night's London concert.

Muti gave the impression of a man who was master of all he surveyed. His performances of the Requiem have always been conceived in the world of the living – a passionate, red-blooded response to an almost operatic score – but what impressed here was the ebb and flow of emotion that brought spontaneity to even the most formal passages.

“The key to the Requiem comes at the end of the ‘Libera me’,” says Muti, relaxing into a subject dear to his heart. “Written in the score are the words lunga pausa [long silence]. The soprano has been saying ‘Please God, I’m defenceless, help me’. Long silence. What is God’s answer? Bang! – the thumping chords of the ‘Dies irae’. No mercy? Or perhaps Verdi believed there was nothing out there to offer hope. Molto complicato. This is the drama of a modern man. The lunga pausa is part of the music, it’s a vacuum of intensity – but most conductors are impatient, they like to move their arms. They ignore the pause and go on. That’s why I say conducting is an illness . . . ”